


The Dance

by forparadise



Series: Spider-Man [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Hurt Peter Parker, Jealousy, M/M, Masturbation, Naive Peter Parker, Overall the mood in this one is bleak and not very fun, Regret, Valentine's Day, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 15:35:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20909975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forparadise/pseuds/forparadise
Summary: Peter skips out on his school's Valentine's Day dance so he can go to an Avenger's party upstate that Tony has invited him to, which he hopes will give him an opportunity to discuss some unspoken things between them.*This is a direct sequel to my previous Spider-Man fic, and might be slightly confusing when it references that one if you haven't read it*





	The Dance

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written and takes place sometime after Spider-Man Homecoming (way before Endgame shenanigans) and Peter is still mulling over the idea of becoming an Avenger.
> 
> Also, as mentioned in the summary, this is a continuation of a previous Spider-Man story of mine, and does reference it a couple of times. - You can find the other story as part of my Spider-Man series :)

It's twenty after seven in the evening and, had Peter actually gone to his school's Valentine's Day dance, he figures now is about the time that everyone would be starting to make their way into the gymnasium. He can easily imagine the way the pink and red decorations look—mostly because he had seen them getting put up slowly over the course of the past week. Valentine's Day wasn't until Monday, but the school had opted for a Saturday dance so it didn't have to be on a school night.

He takes a moment to smooth his tie out in front of the mirror and checks his phone again. Seven twenty-two. He stands next to his open bedroom window and tries to catch a breeze. He's dressed in a suit and it's too hot in his room for it, but he had moved there in an attempt to avoid his aunt May's glances. Tony had said he would be picking him up by six thirty, and Peter could tell that she was bothered by his lateness. Peter wasn't, of course—the man was one of the busiest people he knew. But when seven o'clock rolled around and May had caught him checking the clock for not the first time, she had sighed and shook her head and given him a disapproving look that made him feel like he was the one doing something wrong. _Are you sure you don't want me to drive you to the dance, instead? Look at you, all dressed up. It's wasted on some corporate intern hullabaloo dinner that looks like it might not even happen. _

His finger hovers over Tony's name in his contacts, but as he's contemplating whether a call or a text would be better, a message pops up on his screen from the man with a single word—_Here_.

Peter heads through the living room with a quick goodbye, his aunt calling after him not to be late, and makes his way down the elevator and out the front doors.

He sees Tony parked out on the street in his Audi, wrists on the steering wheel and radio on; the way people out front are eyeing both the car and him when he approaches it makes Peter feel sheepish, almost as much so as when he notices that Tony is dressed simply in jeans and a t-shirt.

Tony, of course, makes a comment on him being over-dressed before he can even settle into his seat. _Jeeze, kid_—there's laughter in his eyes, but they move over him with what, to Peter, looks like approval—_you're the one who came up with the whole fancy dinner thing, guess I didn't get the memo that we had to dress the part like secret agents or something. _

Where they were really going was upstate to the Avengers facility, which would be hosting an event that evening—_just a casual get-together,_ was how Tony had put it—and he had asked Peter to come along. The two had kept in touch since the last time Peter was there, but only through phone, intercom, video—_Peter's hands sliding into his own suit, peeling it off in pieces; sometimes Tony watching, sometimes the empty Iron Man suit joining him, sometimes nothing_—and Peter had been anticipating the chance to actually see him in person every night since the call. It had been easier to just tell May that it was a dinner regarding the Stark internship. To not have to go into detail about why and where and who.

But it was so close to Valentine's Day, and Peter had told Tony that he was skipping out on the dance for it, and he had just thought, maybe—

“No, I just... I guess I just thought that the dinner still might happen. It is past seven, after all—” he drifts off as Tony starts the car and reverses, hand on the back of Peter's headrest so he can see out the rear window;

“Well hey, if you're hungry, there's a great burrito place on the way. We can get drive-through.” Peter says sure, and then averts his gaze to the window when he hears the way his voice falters on the word.

#

The main room of the facility has been decked out with decorations of gold and white, which isn't exactly Valentine's themed in Peter's opinion, but very impressive none-the-less. He takes it all in as Tony leads him to a sitting area filled with a bunch of faces he doesn't recognize. He had said in text that it would be a good opportunity for Peter to get to know some of the regulars, since he's still mulling over the Avengers thing. Peter didn't realize, though, that by _just a casual get-together_, he meant well over fifty people and more food and drink than he could keep track of.

#

He eats way more than he should, gets a small buzz by sneaking sips of champagne, and spends most of his time hanging out by a bookshelf with James Rhodes, who is one of the only people he recognizes. Everyone else is pretty nice, though, and Peter gets a good kick out of seeing how quickly Happy gets drunk, despite how at one point he scolds Peter for a good five minutes when he spots Rhodey giving him a taste of his beer (Peter has had beer before but he doesn't say that, figuring it better to let Happy say his piece, regardless of how slurred it was).

Pepper joins the party over an hour after it starts, and Peter feels a tightness in his stomach when he sees Tony go over to kiss her. It's chaste enough, but this is Peter's very first time seeing her in person and he immediately feels the pangs of both jealousy and intimidation. Her hair is exactly how it looks on the magazine covers, and she's wearing a simple but perfectly fitted red dress that suddenly makes Peter self-conscious about the way his suit is just a little too big on him. He watches how easily she schmoozes, the way she keeps a hand around Tony's arm when they're together, how the ring on her left hand glimmers along with all of the decorations—but what he also notices is Tony's lack of response to all of it. He's normally pretty aloof, but Peter wants to believe that the disinterest he sees now is as genuine as he thinks it is.

Hours later, around eleven thirty, Tony comes to stand with him and Rhodey as the party dwindles down, and Peter listens to the two of them banter and reminisce together; it's easy and comfortable and Peter enjoys it immensely.

“Not like the old days, eh buddy?” Rhodey gibes. “Peter, you gotta come around for one of the real parties next time. I think you'd have a blast.”

Finally Rhodey confesses his fatigue, brushing off Peter's offer to help him to his room, which Tony raises his hands in surrender at,

“That guy's as stubborn as an ox so don't even bother with niceties around him.” he says loudly enough to warrant a casual flip-off from Rhodey on his way out. Peter chuckles and goes to clean off some of the glasses on the table next to them, but ends up bumping into it with his thigh and nearly knocking them over.

“Woah, cowboy.” Tony grabs him around the bicep and Peter is shocked at his own clumsiness. He feels disoriented, but he can't tell if it's from the booze, or from the way Tony's cologne smells mixed with the whiskey he's been drinking all night.

“I think you're the one who needs a bit of help, huh?” he says, brushing Peter's hands away from the empty glasses, “Don't do that. I pay people for that.”

Peter goes with him down the hall without saying much—what he should be saying is that he had no intention of staying out all night. That May expected him back before morning. It was probably already getting too late.

He lets Tony lead him up some stairs and into one of the guest bedrooms, which, upon first glance, seems to Peter like it's bigger than his whole apartment back home. Tony has a fresh glass of whiskey in his hand and sips from it as he moves to close the impressive curtains, making small talk about the night and letting Peter know about the towels in the en suite if he wants to take a shower.

“Where's Pepper?” Peter asks, shrugging his jacket off and placing it over the back of a nearby chair, immediately regretting the question.

“Pepper? Went to bed like an hour ago.” Tony's tone is casual enough, but he doesn't look at Peter when he says it, instead staring into his glass as he swirls the liquid from side to side. Peter pulls the heavy comforter off of the bed and lets it pile on the floor, sliding in under the sheets. Tony asks him if he's feeling alright, going on about how someone else is to blame if he's drunk because_ I never put a drink in your hand_—but Peter doesn't feel drunk. He feels too hot, and uncomfortable, and like he has a lot to say but the words are sticking in his mouth like taffy.

Tony sits on the edge of the bed next to him and puts the back of his hand on his forehead—like that has ever actually done anything to diagnose a sickness—but is a standard fatherly move that Tony seems to have picked up from somewhere. It bothers Peter that everything about Tony is fatherly right now—the way he sits close but not too close; the way he looks down at him with a bit of concern, but behind the concern is a desire to say goodnight and get back to the bottle and the few lingering friends still mingling downstairs. Maybe even hidden in there is a desire to get to his own bed. To his fiancee.

Peter thinks of the time he's spent up on rooftops over the past few months, just him and Tony's voice; and then he thinks about the boys on the internet videos he's come across a handful of times during restless late-night searches that didn't go on for more than just a few minutes. He can picture vividly the ones that look right at the camera, the ones you could believe were looking at you—when they wet their lips with their tongue; when they slip two fingers in between straight, white teeth; when they bring a hand down to pop open the top button of their fly. Peter never lets it get much further, quickly closing his laptop when embarrassment makes his cheeks and neck almost hurt with a sudden overwhelming heat. But it undoubtedly almost always leads him to his bed soon after, where he instead stares up at his ceiling, hand edging in behind the band of his boxers. Lately, it's been Tony that he thinks about every single time.

He wants to know that Tony sees him as more than that. When he does things for him in front of the suits camera, when he watches himself in a mirror, he wants to know that, when Tony sees it, he's seeing him. That he's not just the equivalent of some boy on the internet that can be clicked away from when a meeting starts. He wants to know that Tony is present.

“Mr. Stark. Tony... please. Stay here with me, just for a bit. Don't go back yet.” his own voice—low, desperate—shocks him.

“Why, you think you might puke?” Tony reaches for a wicker paper basket next to the night stand, like it would somehow help if he did need to, but Peter shakes his head, closing his eyes.

Tony doesn't say anything, but after a moment, Peter can feel him pull a knee up and settle on the edge of the bed a bit more comfortably. His heart is beating in his throat, and he wonders if it's loud enough for Tony to hear. The room is so dark and silent and in his head he hears a sound like rushing water. Finally, it's replaced with the rustling sound of the sheets as he moves a hand beneath them, and then the sound of his socked feet sliding against the mattress when he spreads his legs, the blanket tenting where he pulls his knees up.

“I better go.” Tony's voice seems to fill the space of the whole room, although the words were very quiet. Peter says, _no, wait_, and his free hand rests on Tony's knee, fingers pressing gently. His other hand unzips the fly on his slacks and when he feels the clammy skin of his own palm wrap around his cock it makes his hips twitch. He's quick to realize that Tony isn't actually moving to leave at all. Instead he hears the delicate clinking of ice cubes in the whiskey glass as he brings it to his lips, hears the soft sound of him swallowing.

Peter doesn't want to lose the opportunity, doesn't want him to change his mind, so it only takes a moment for him to fall into a familiar rhythm—bicep flexing, hips hovering just above the surface of the mattress—when Tony's voice, quiet and much more dour than he's used to, interrupts him;

“Hey, take your time.”

Peter's other hand is still on Tony's knee and he realizes that he's digging his fingers into it. He wishes he could see more than just the outline of Tony's face in the dark room; he wishes he could see every detail, read every reaction. He takes in a shaky breath and begins to move his hand again, slower this time, flicking his wrist, letting his thumb rub over the head of his cock, feeling it’s wetness. Soon enough he's got half of his face buried in the pillow under his head and is moaning unabashedly, probably too loudly—and then, the feeling of the sheets pulling away from his body, sliding down over his thighs, the cool air settling on his exposed skin, making the hair on his forearms prickle. He can feel his face and his chest and every part of him heat up, and more than anything he wishes that Tony would touch him. He says as much, but whether Tony hears it or not is unsure. Either way, Tony doesn't touch him—but just before Peter comes, when his face tightens and his dull nails dig into the material bunching at Tony's knee, he hears Tony's voice say, _look at me_, and Peter just manages to open his eyes and turn his head before he's coming across his own fist and stomach, gasping, holding Tony's gaze.

#

Peter meets Tony down by the front doors after showering, having claimed that there was no way he could stay all night. He tried to ignore the sound of relief in Tony's voice as he walked to the bedroom door and said he'd be waiting downstairs for him when he was ready. He tries not to dwell on the part of himself that had maybe, kind of, hoped that Tony would tell him that he should stay, that he wanted him there.

Tony is leaning against the open front door, eyes on his phone, and Peter thinks about all of the things he wants to talk to him about; but when he approaches, he realizes that there's already a car waiting out on the driveway with the engine running. He eyes the driver waiting for him, but before he can say anything, Tony catches the look and gives him a solid open-palmed pat between the shoulders,

“Happy was already passed out on one of the couches. Pretty funny actually, way too small for him, I'll text you a picture. Don't worry though, Chris will get you home safe and sound.” He finishes with a small, distracted wave towards the driver looking up at them through the windshield. Peter must look confused, because Tony puts his phone in his pocket and apologizes,

“Next time, alright kid? Wouldn't be a good idea. I'm a few drinks in, you know.”

#

Peter sits in the back seat and stares out his window, barely saying more than a few words to the driver. He feels bad about it, but can't even fathom trying to come up with things to make small talk about. Half way home, his phone vibrates a few times in his pocket, and it makes his stomach clench painfully. He takes a moment to imagine all of the different things that Tony could be messaging him about, and spends a full minute planning his response to each one of them. After a steadying breath, he slides his thumb over the unlock screen, but instead of seeing Tony's name there, it's Ned's. The texts are filled with pictures from the dance that night—one of him and Michelle taking a selfie with stupid faces; some shots of the decorations and food; one of Flash looking pissed off with punch spilled on the front of his jacket. After the pictures he writes, _Tell you all about it on Monday! We missed you!_

Peter turns his phone off entirely, drops it back into his pocket, and doesn't touch it again for the rest of the night.


End file.
